


breathed so deep i thought i drowned (it feels better biting down)

by randomfatechidna



Series: all your faves have anxiety [2]
Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Mentions of Character Death, Panic Attacks, nat isn't having a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 05:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomfatechidna/pseuds/randomfatechidna
Summary: "how can i fix this," he asks. he doesn't pull away, doesn't make his presence any less all-consuming. he asks as if it is his fault, as if she blames him for her suffering. she doesn't. she never did.





	breathed so deep i thought i drowned (it feels better biting down)

**Author's Note:**

> this is. p much about nat's fear of death. it's very triggering, so much so that it even got me a couple of times. take care when reading, and please look after yourself.
> 
> not set in any particular universe, take your pick :)

she wakes in a cold sweat, strangled breaths clawing up her throat, her fight to keep them silent a losing battle. breathing feels like a scream. like. tearing paper. she can't think. the only thing she knows is, there is a black edge yawning into the distance when she considers the rest of her life.

 

james' arm snakes around her in the dark, pulling her to him tighter, still half asleep. a moment of her panic is spent in jealous regard of him. "'talia," he murmurs, relaxed, unaware. she is vibrating with anxious energy, eyes blown wide with strain. the grip of his arm is strangling her, she thinks. she doesn't think. she doesn’t breathe.

 

tearing herself away from him is easy when her stomach first roils, burning bile up her throat. her ankles tingle, her collarbones, the back of her neck. odd places. it feels like her soul is trying to claw itself out.

 

giving way to her insistence, his grip slackens and she succeeds in pushing him away. she pads quickly to the ensuite, closing the door behind her before she can't be held back anymore.

 

it is foolish, she thinks, to be afraid of the end, when she has taken so many lives herself, submit them to their humanity. it is hypocrisy. but it is all she has left. she is weary of the effort it takes to maintain calm all of the time, to refuse the onslaught of thoughts that threaten to overwhelm her too often. the need to run, to escape her physical self, overtakes, but she is powerless to act on it, hunched heavily over the toilet bowl, shaking limbs seconds away from collapsing in her grief.

 

"nat," the voice is warm, is concerned. he has seen her frantic and afraid, he has seen her at her devastating worst, but she warms bashfully at the thought of him seeing her like this. she loves him, with all of her weary skin, with the pulsing muscle of her heart, but, in this struggle, she feels desperately alone.

 

trying to pull herself into a seated position fails. "don't," she says, an effort, a strain between loud breaths, "come in." as she leans her cheek onto her arm, a tear smears itself across her shirtsleeve. she did not realise she was crying. she wants to be outside of herself so badly, outside of this body, the limitations of her skin, and she almost howls in frustration. all that comes out is a desperate sob.

 

when he calls her name again, from outside the door, the sound is raw, anguished. "natasha, _svezda moya_ , let me help you."

 

she shakes her head, knowing he cannot see her, and a watery "no," bubbles it's way out of her mouth. it's so unlike her, to break down like this, to show all the little hairline fractures that haven't healed right, and despite his knowledge of all of them, she can't do it. the shame of it will kill her. and she's afraid of oblivion.

 

"darling," he tries again, voice muffled as she hears him kneel behind the door, waiting for her to admit him. she has to bite down on her fist to keep from screaming aloud, tears stinging the back of her hand. she does not deserve him and his infinite patience. she is being ridiculous and frivolous - she spent her entire life on the front line and yet she feels her body rooted, clawing at the earth, afraid of where moving on will take her. he does not mind, but plies her with gentle reminders.  "you are alive, and your heart is beating. let me prove it to you. let me in, my love."

 

her breath is still running ragged, and everything is shaking. she can't stand and, if she tried, she would most definitely fall. she is sick of doing this alone. dragging a bundle of toilet paper across her lips, she breathes all the air out of her lungs, pushing the lowest walls of her stomach into her spine. she breathes in courage. "come in," she says. the sound is wobbly, and barely fills the room, but he must hear it, because the door opens and the next thing she knows is that she is bundled in his arms.

 

for the first few moments, she can only focus on the feel of him, solid, real, and _alive_ around her, heart beating with strength, and breaths pushing on his chest. fine stubble scrapes at her neck, but instead of her usual fare, groaning and pushing him away, she pushes closer to him, her nails digging into his back where her fists have gathered up the material of his shirt. the motion grounds her, tethering her to where he is. he smells like home: like safety, like soil, the summer sun, and she sobs again in a relief so full that it tugs painfully at her stomach. sobs again. again. her muscles ache hard with effort.

 

"how can i fix this," he asks. he doesn't pull away, doesn't make his presence any less all-consuming. he asks as if it is his fault, as if she blames him for her suffering. she doesn't. she never did. a well of _something_ takes root in her stomach, and she pulls away for a moment to look in his eyes, breathing him in.

 

how can he fix this. what does she want.

 

slowly, like a dream, she slides her hands up, up, up, to his chest and around his jaw, pulling his lips softly, softly, down to her own. he responds, and his gentle enthusiasm breaks her, makes her skin dance in delight. she wants to forget herself, she thinks, to exist outside of her body for a short time, to forget her limitations.

 

she wants _him._

 

she pushes herself onto him, more urgent, squeezing her knees around him. she frees a hand from around his neck to wipe the tears still running freely from her eyes, clutching desperately with her other hand to keep herself anchored.

 

he humours her, and then pulls away, slowly. "natalia," he says, resting his forehead against her own, voice like gravel. she finds his neck with her breath, and resumes there where he broke her off. he says her name, more insistent, and rests his hands on her shoulders to slow her movement. "not like this," he says. she's not stopped crying, rests her head on his collarbone. she nods. concedes defeat.

 

in one swift movement, she's in his arms, and then he is lying her back on the bed, where he takes her in his arms again. he kisses her forehead and the sound she makes is so vulnerable, so frightened, that for a moment he struggles to reconcile the angel of death he once knew in the red rooms with the woman plagued by it in his arms now. nevertheless, he counts himself lucky that she trusts him with all of herself, all of her pieces.

 

in the morning they both know she will be distant, will erect a smokescreen to protect her heart. not because she doesn't love him, but because she loves him too much. processing her emotions, for her, is just that: a process, and james is nothing if not patient, nothing if he doesn't know that natasha never had the opportunity to become a person before the rooms took her, and that every new emotion is a journey.  

 

it doesn't make it hurt any less, though, that she feels she can't be vulnerable with him in the light of day. in his pain, he reminds himself to be patient, reminds himself that she has been there for him in his darkest hours, too - and even then, she never expected him to divulge what lay behind the cracks in his facade once the sun rose. in time, she will be ready for him.

 

in the morning, she will rise before he does. she will run - feel the bite of the spring wind on her cheeks, on the curve of her shoulders. she will return home, and she will become who she becomes in the daytime.

 

she turns over in the bed and pulls him closer to her, winding a leg between his. she rests her hand over his heart and feels the beats, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

 

"i love you," she says. a whisper. a hymn. her heart rate slows from the panicked marathon it had beat in the bathroom. her skin clams as she calms, and the urge to sleep overrides her urge to shower and feel fresh, alive, new.

 

james tilts her jaw so he can capture her lips between his own. chaste. nothing like she wanted five minutes ago. each word of his reply is punctuated with a ghost of air over her lips. "i love you, too."

 


End file.
